When I was eleven, my parents were in a car accident. My dad died and my mom was severely injured. She went into a coma for a few months and then was brought home to stay with us.
She was bedridden. A lot of physiotherapists came to our house to help her. Most were really rough, and hurt her a lot. She had become so angry from the pain and would often curse everyone around her, including the nurses that each spent only a few days with us before leaving or being ler go. Her bed was right in front of the door to my bedroom, the bedroom which I spent most of my time in now.
One time, during one of these physiotherapy sessions, she was so in pain that she grabbed my hand and yelled “kill me, kill me”, begging me with her eyes.
There are scars that don’t leave you. You wonder if what you experienced was real. You wonder if any of it meant anything. You wonder if she was, in fact, better off dead. Because if that happens to me one day, and I’m bedridden for the rest of my life, or bound to a wheelchair, as my mom later was, unable to live my own life independently, I’d rather die. Such degree of unwanted pain can never be meaningful.